Two Shots
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: My answer to the 3GAR challenge. A little rough because I didn't focus on it fully.


_**Two Shots**_

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_**DISCLAIMER:**__**I had nothing to do with the creation of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson...that amazing honour goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: This is my bit in answer to bcbdrums's 3GAR challenge. This was talked about with a few of the others in my Fanfiction Workshop forum here (specifically in the Misc. Chatting thread) and since bcb posted hers, I guess I'll post mine. xD**

**I'm not going into a whole super-long thing that I COULD do...I'm trying to hurry because I'm going to church in a little while.**

**(Remember, some of this is directly from ACD's text.)**

**I changed it a bit from what I did earlier. Enjoy!**

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"Well, well!" said Evans coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and —"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. I tried to move as soon as I had seen the glint of the gun, but felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh.

There was a sound of metal upon flesh as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of the criminal sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him quickly for weapons. Soon after I felt my friend's wiry arms round me, and he was leading me carefully to a chair.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

It was worth a wound — it was worth _many_ wounds — to know finally the depth of the loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, steely eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.

All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

"It's nothing, Holmes," I said, grasping his arm reassuringly. "It's a mere scratch."

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife in his hurried anxiety and examined the wound none the less.

"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was now sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would _not_ have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"

Apparently he had nothing to say for himself; he only sat and scowled, gingerly rubbing his bloodied head.

Holmes left me in the chair and stepped over to the great hole in the floor. He peered down into the small cellar and laughed through his nose, though his face--still pale from the shock--was mirthless.

"A printing press--a counterfeiter's outfit," he said. He then looked back at me. "Watson, are you quite well enough to keep your revolver on this fellow?"

I had fully recovered from my momentary shock by that time, and I answered in the affirmative.

"Excellent," my friend replied, and I noted that he was still paler than usual.

At first I thought that he had not yet recovered from the shock of my nearly being shot, but I knew that was too unlike him. He then turned toward me, and my breath caught in my throat as I saw the real reason for his palor. The other gunshot; there had been two. I had been hit by one of them, but my friend...

There was a dark crimson stain spreading from the shoulder of his tweed suit. I could see by his tight-lipped expression and dull eyes that he was in some pain, but he deduced my thoughts and waved me off before I could even speak.

"I am fine for the moment, Watson," he said, "A bit more than a scratch, but until the Yard arrives--"

It was as if his breath left him for a moment, and he stumbled forward. I gave no thought to my own wounds as I sprang to my feet to catch him. My friend flushed with either embarrassment or strain as I led him to the chair that I had been sitting in moments before, and pressed his hand to his forehead weakly. I noted the stain was spreading quickly, and my worry increased as he did not protest as I sat my revolver to the side to remove his jacket and inspect the wound.

It did not look good. Blood was oozing much more freely than I would like, and I ripped away a long portion of his shirt to stop the bleeding, pressing his coat firmly over that. I prayed that Scotland Yard would arrive soon, for he needed a surgeon, and I was without my instruments.

"Watson..." Holmes said, raising his head quickly. Perhaps it was a bit too quickly, for he winced.

"Shh, don't try to speak," I said.

"No..." Holmes continued with more urgency, and I heard that which had imparted such a tone into his voice.

"All right now, Mr. Holmes, I guess I couldn't let you go with just a bribe now that you've gone and hit me like that."

I swallowed nervously. I hadn't been watching Evans all this time...

I turned, and surely enough he was on his feet, though still looking a bit worse for wear. I was a wounded man, and my friend was even worse. I had no idea what trick this American was going to play on us next.

Evans smirked lightly, lowering the handkerchief he had been holding against his head and advanced slowly. He stopped in a moment, however, and his smirk dissapeared.

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't be too hard to part with a couple hundred. Would that satisfy you gentlemen enough to leave and forget all about this?" he said.

My brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but all was cleared up as I heard the familiar click of my friend's gun beside me. I looked at Holmes, and he had drawn his gun from his pocket once more.

"Please have the kindness to go and sit down until Scotland Yard arrives," said my friend coolly. "I would not try my patience if I were you. Not after you shot Watson."

I saw Evans swallow nervously as he backed away slowly and sat. I continued with tending to Holmes and my own wounds while my comrade kept his "old favourite" trained upon the blackguard.

"It was foolish enough to come at a man who has taken your gun," Holmes remarked as I attempted to bandage his shoulder with his torn sleeve.

After about thirty long and seemingly endless minutes, during which we listened to the American's story, the Yard finally arrived. Stanley Hopkins entered with several constables, and when he saw us his jaw fairly dropped.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, are you two all right?" the policeman asked.

Holmes sighed and sat back in the chair tiredly.

"Perfectly fine," he replied.

The inspector walked over to us after directing his men to arrest Evans and sat his hands on his hips as he looked us over.

"It hardly looks like it, sir. You and the doctor had best come back to the Yard. We'll get a surgeon to look at you."

"That sounds like a capital idea," said I.

"I believe you're up to the task, Watson," Holmes said, pressing the cloth against his wound as he stood to his feet. "The bullet seems to have passed through with little enough damage with both of us."

"Thank the Heavens for that..." I muttered, attempting to get to my own feet.

Holmes extended his free hand.

"So, Hopkins, I think you are quite glad to have your hands finally on the Prescott outfit?" my friend said to the Yarder as he helped me stand.

"Oh, certainly, Mr. Holmes. We've had several good men trying to find it for five years now. They'll certainly sleep sounder for this."

"Indeed. Now, Inspector, if one of your men could call us a cab."

The Yard was grateful enough, and thankfully insisted that Holmes and I were quickly taken to be looked at by a surgeon. We had both lost some blood, but the injuries were simple enough and they healed completely with time.

The real Mr. Garrideb, crushed by the fall of his castle in the sky, was a broken man after that and was last heard of in a nursing-home in Brixton. "Killer" Evans's 'discovery' of the counterfeiting outfit had indeed made many at the Yard quite happy, but the courts did not see it as the removal of a public threat, and the man who had been so quick to use his revolver went back to gaol.

As for Holmes and myself, it had cost us both a blood-letting, but I was immensely grateful for the heart I found my friend really had. The strange case of the three Garridebs always stood forever in my mind as an important moment in our friendship.

**0000000000**

**KS: Thanks for reading! Sorry it was so...uneventful and such. But please, review!**


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